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he’s lost in his plant paradise, which he created on his deck. From among his roses, cosmos, chervil, star anise clumps, potted palms, and Aspasia orchids, the telephone ring sounds just like a buzzing bee. Now I’m just talking to myself. So I decide to call a taxi and go see him.
    He lives in upscale Prati, near the Vatican, on the top floor of an old, immaculately maintained building. The dark facade makes it look like a giant burnt cookie, but his terrace could give the Hanging Gardens of Babylon some serious competition. After he and my mother separated, my mother knocked down everything that he’d cared for so passionately. A fountain topped by a naked cherub supplanted the greenhouse. A white marble gazebo—reminiscent of a war monument—replaced the flowerbeds. The Japanese carp that filled the pond died almost immediately.
    When I ring the doorbell, a woman opens the door, startling me. A woman? Who is she? She doesn’t look very much at home; there’s no towel in her hand or cobweb dangling from her ear. She’s about fifty years old with blue eyes, cheeks as red as a Russian doll’s, and a timid air. She’s wearing a herringbone wool suit, and she’s barefoot. Barefoot? What is a barefoot nesting doll doing at my father’s? Do I have the wrong apartment? I stammer and glance around to make sure I’ve got the right door. But this is indeed the top floor.
    “Um . . . I . . . ,” I say uncertainly.
    “You must be Carlotta,” the woman murmurs.
    My dad appears behind her, wearing gardening gloves and a childlike grin. She blushes, embarrassed, and whispers something to my father. Then she shakes my hand and walks away, still barefoot and still smiling.
    “She’s my neighbor,” my dad hastens to clarify. “Every now and then, she comes and helps me with the plants.”
    I want to ask him more, especially when I head into the kitchen and see a juicy roast and a pan of shrimp on the counter, most definitely not his work. He’s a magician with growing flora, but when it comes to cooking fauna, he’s a disaster. For the moment, though, he doesn’t seem inclined to say anything else. I can tell he’s happy; there’s a little light in his eyes that I know comes from the things he enjoys: good food, fresh flowers, mowed lawns, dewdrops, serenity, and gratitude. Plus he’s plumper than usual, which, given the frailty we share, is equivalent to extravagance. I let him get away with not explaining—assuming there is any explaining to do.
    His apartment is pretty bare on the inside; there are no paintings, no rugs, and just a few pieces of furniture. But out on the terrace, he abandons all modesty and becomes Baroque. The rooftop garden is bursting with vegetation. The plants seem to be laughing in the heat and humidity of the greenhouse that he built. Although it’s late winter, the sun beats down like it’s summer in here. I open a slightly dirty beach chair and sink into it. Just as I’m about to tell him about my professional success, he speaks.
    “Erika will be glad to see you!” he exclaims.
    I feel a slight jolt. It’s not that I hate my sister—but the thought of seeing her makes me curse my decision to leave the Xanax at home. To be honest, it makes me curse my decision not to stay home myself. I’ll never be nominated for the Older Sisters with a Heart of Gold championships, but Erika will never make the list of finalists in the Perfect Younger Sisters competition, either. I just have to fake it. My mouth contorts itself into a scary smile. Good thing Dad is too busy tending to a mandarin plant to notice.
    “What a joy. My two girls together,” he says, moving on to a Kentia palm.
    Again, I’m about to tell him my sensational news when the doorbell rings. Okay, this is way too much suspense for my taste. As I go to open the door, I try out my Gloria Swanson walk again, but Erika looks at me like I’m an alien and stink of sulfur. She doesn’t even say hello as she struts